Pik landed blow after powerful blow to the heavy
bag, the muscles of his
torso flexing and rippling like a sackful of hyperactive puppies.
When
selecting an apartment, some people prioritized closet space, a
well-apportioned kitchen, or a scenic view; by contrast, the
apartments
he maintained scattered throughout the major cities of the world
all
boasted private gyms elaborate enough to make Olympians weep.
This
apartment was no exception.

Well, except for the private part.

Would you kindly stop humming? Thank you. He returned
to his workout
with redoubled savagery, mentally projecting Boudreaux's face
upon the
hapless canvas, and ignoring Vaughn quite pointedly. While the
sight of her
lean, lithe body clad only in a tight black tank top and shorts
was quite
pleasantly distracting to the eye, her demeanor was far less
pleasantly
distracting to his concentration. Ever since disposing of Mason,
Vaughn's
sullen mood had rebounded back into the realm of the annoyingly
light-hearted -- or at least as light-hearted as people like Pik
and Vaughn
ever got. Even at the best of times, you'd never cast them in a
dinner theater
revival of Pollyanna, so long as you expected
audiences to survive dessert.
Still, Vaughn's relentless overconfidence had begun to grate on
nerves
already raw with apprehension. In his current state, her attitude
reminded
him of those infuriatingly perky types who lecture you to look
for silver
linings even as you're swamped up to your ass in alligator-infested
clouds.

It made him mad enough to mix his metaphors.

More to the point, it reminded him of Fouchon.

Hmmph. Somebody's cranky, Vaughn teased in a cheery
sing-song,
blinking away the beads of sweat and biting her lower lip with
effort as
she continued a grueling series of repetitions with his free
weights.
Although, like Pik, she could boast of top-notch physical
condition, she
also, like Pik, usually trained alone. This unorthodox
togetherness had
sparked an odd, unspoken competition, each unwilling to be the
first to
throw in the towel and head for the showers. Speaking of which, a
nice
hot shower and possibly a sauna soak would be just the thing
after this
unusually intense bout of exercise. Gazing appreciatively at the
vision
of a shirtless and sweaty Pik, she grimaced when she realized
that the
man's superb physique had wormed its way inside her fantasies to
share
both shower and sauna. Hastily, she resumed the conversation.
Well, never you mind. You'll feel on top of the world once
we've
turned your Cajun into jambalaya. Decided how you want to kill
him yet?

He halted in mid-punch, neck and shoulders clenching with
exasperation.
His entire body tensed, hard flesh contracting with the raw
kinetic force
of a carefully cocked trigger, while his quiet words were bullet-smooth.
It's not going to be some cakewalk, you know. Nothing like
it was with
your two cretins. Boudreaux is --

He stabbed her with a stare malevolent enough to cure the
toughest case of
constipation. We've been through this once already. Don't
bait me. You'll
regret it.

Sadly enough, hired killers often can out-analyze the average
psychotherapist. They have better motivations, after all; they
need to get
inside their victim's mind before they can safely proceed to
splatter said
mind all over the pavement. Now, those skills screamed out a
warning as
Vaughn scanned his hostile body language, sizing up the toxic
brew of
negative emotions bottled tightly underneath his handsome, sleek
veneer
of absolute control. His sense of humor had always been his
safety valve;
even in the course of their brief acquaintance, she'd recognized
it with
unerring instincts. Now, in its absence, Pik Van Cleaf obviously
was
stressed enough to rupture at the seams. A smart person wouldn't
push
him. A smart person wouldn't remain in the same metropolitan area
with
him, let alone the same room.

Vaughn was smart. Unfortunately, she was also very, very pissed.

Dropping the weights with a soft clang reminiscent of
the opening bell
for round one, she strolled over to confront him, poking his
chest
accusingly with her index finger to punctuate each deliberately
barbed
and venomed word. I. Said. You're. Scared. She
climaxed her verbal
castration-fest by trailing slender fingertips just below the
hemline of his
shorts, provocatively tracing the pale and puckered pattern of
bullet
scars which marred one perfect thigh.

Pik's brutal backhand surely would have crushed her jaw if she
hadn't
ducked just in time, propelled by mercenary reflexes which sensed
his
imminent movement expertly as animals perceive the subtlest
seismic
tremors. She retaliated immediately with a leg sweep aimed for
the
vulnerable backs of the knees; the blow assaulted only empty air
as
Pik vaulted it with eerie grace, arms and hands extended for
balance
in a pose straight out of some grotesque ballet, poised in
preparation
for a pas de deux from which one of the deux would not emerge
alive.
They circled one another warily, each exuding grudging admiration
for
a well-matched enemy, each probing for a weakness to exploit. It
seemed a battle between a panther and a hawk, his feline
sensuality an
ideal foil for the distinctly avian edge to her sharp-featured
beauty.
If I'm treating you like a three-year-old, perhaps it is
because you're
*acting* like one, Pik admonished, lips and eyebrows
arching into a
curved geometry of condescension calculated to enrage her into
losing
all control. Try to show at least some last vestige of
professionalism,
would you? This is not a game.

Vaughn's narrowed eyes injected a potent dose of literal
lethality into
the timeworn old cliché of a deadly serious
expression. So who's
playing? With a skillful feint, she lunged at him,
intending to seize his
arm and use his own brawn against him in a nasty judo toss, but
once
again Pik displayed a deceptively remarkable agility for his
height and
build. Sidestepping her attack at the last possible instant, he
lashed out
and locked her arms within a deftly applied akido hold which held
quite
fast in spite of all her futile struggles to escape.

Pik grinned broadly, his good humor abundantly restored by her
abundantly arousing display of physical exertions against his
superior
strength. A hawk can be quite deadly, but not when trapped
beneath a
panther's paw. Vaughn, Vaughn, Vaughn. You're only hurting
yourself,
you know. The more you resist, the more pain --

I know how akido works, Vaughn interrupted angrily,
still wrenching
and twisting with daunting determination. Both their bodies
gleamed with
a slippery sheen of perspiration, highly antithetical to the
traction of his
grip. If only she could gain some leverage . . . .

He leaned in close, lips and teeth tickling her ear in a gesture
as threatening
as it was erotic, given the sadistic reputation which preceded
him. So
are you simply stubborn, then? Or are you a masochist, perhaps?

Vaughn ceased struggling, jerked her head back, and glared up
defiantly
into Pik's smirk, her own lips twisted with exaggerated revulsion.
Oh, I bet that would be a dream come true for a sick
bastard like you.
You're probably into all sorts of kinky crap.

Having gained the upper hand, both literally and figuratively,
Pik blithely
refused to be provoked, and concentrated instead on enjoying the
view
with the tables turned. It was a very nice view indeed,
particularly in light
of how low-cut her top appeared at this angle. The way her
generous
breasts rose and fell in time with her labored breathing only
enhanced
the experience. You didn't answer my question. His
tongue leisurely
explored her ear, teeth nipping lightly.

Vaughn's only answer was a rather colorful string of profanity
casting
aspersions upon everything from the legitimacy of his parentage
to the
orthodoxy of his sexual orientation. She punctuated the blue
streak with
a rather creditable attempt to kick at his shins, which he easily
avoided.

Go ahead, maintain that feminine mystique, Pik
laughed, dark eyes
glinting with mischief and mockery underneath the shadow of his
heavy
lashes, striking as the strokes of pen-and-ink on parchment paper.
Come to think of it, you *are* quite the woman of mystery,
aren't you?
I don't even know your first name.

She recoiled as if stung, and then her struggles resumed with a
vengeance,
heedless of the agony. No shit. And you're not going to
find out, either.

His lips pursed, intrigued at the sight of her angular jaw
clenching with
determination, the corded tendons straining in her slender neck.
His
careless probing had quite clearly paid off with an open wound,
although not even vaguely close to anywhere he would suspect.
A single drop of sweat trembled from the tip of her chin; slowly,
deliberately, his tongue flicked out to taste it. Sweat ranked as
one
of his favorite bodily fluids, right up there with tears and
blood -- all
the rich, warm, vital ones, suffused with the saline savor of
fear and
pain and anger. If you want me to think about letting you
go, you'll tell me.

I don't *have* a first name, she snapped. I
just go by Vaughn. Like
Cher, or Madonna.

Or Liberace, yes, I quite understand, and I couldn't care
less, he teased.
Your preferred form of address is irrelevant. What's at
issue is the name
upon your birth certificate.

The message in Pik's gaze could not be written clearer if his
eyes had
really been just so much pen on parchment. Reading the eloquent
threat
contained therein, Vaughn could see that he was fully prepared to
stand
there all day with her held in place. Take it up as a new full-time
career, if
necessary. *Damn gorilla could do it, too,* she thought
resentfully.
And probably enjoy it, judging by the unmistakable and rather
massive
evidence of his excitement pressing hard into her hip. She
savagely shoved
her pelvis sideways, only to feel him ride the thrust, shifting
position to
enjoy her unintentional ministrations with an openly lascivious
expression.
*Bastard.*

Her obvious evasion piqued his curiosity more with every passing
second.
What the hell was she hiding? No, it's not. You stammered,
and your
pupils flickered. You're lying through your teeth. I thought you
were rather
better at deception than that amateurish display. He
hastily distanced his
face and tightened his grip considerably as she attempted to bite
him, both
amused and impressed by her inexplicable persistence. She'd been
folded in
half as neatly as a greeting card, shoulder blades scraping one
another with
many a protesting creak of bone, but still she fought, overtly
furious.
Ah, ah -- temper, temper. Didn't I tell you it would get
you into trouble?
The truth, now. 'Fess up.

Vaughn stood still, panting heavily, attempting to judge just how
much
room she had left to maneuver before he dislocated both her arms.
Not goddamn much. Swallowing intense distaste for what she had to
do,
she peered up at him warily, golden hair plastered to her
forehead in damp,
dark strands. If you laugh, I swear that you are *so
incredibly* dead.

You are hardly in a position to threaten, Pik chided,
shaking his head at
her effrontery. But I won't laugh."

Promise?

That merited a double-take, if only for the oddly plaintive
timbre of the query.
All right. I promise.

Staring fixedly at a distant spot upon the wall, she muttered
something
unintelligible.

Sorry, I didn't quite catch that. God, he was
enjoying this.

She braced herself for torture far worse than being turned into a
human
wishbone. It's . . . Tiffany.

Pik proved himself a liar.

Shut *up*! I told you not to laugh! Vaughn yelled,
wondering for the
millionth time why she'd never bothered to officially change her
name.
Tiffany" went with the professional killer persona
just about as well as a
toy poodle and a moped, damn her scatterbrained mother to hell.
Blood
surging with intense desire to wreak a bloody vengeance, she
concentrated
on the pressure of his hands upon her arms. His laughter had been
a mistake
in more than one sense of the word; his grip was slipping. What
the hell
kind of a name is 'Pik,' anyway? Parents named you after an oral
hygiene
appliance?

It's Dutch, he chuckled, his hold relaxing just
enough to allow Vaughn
to slide free, wrenching his arm into a picture-perfect judo
throw which
wiped the smile from his face quite neatly even as it sent him
sailing
through the air.

So now you're a Flying Dutchman, she declared
triumphantly, savoring
his shocked expression as he slammed into the exercise mat like
the
felling of a mighty oak. Unfortunately, she duplicated his
mistake, and
the mistake of villains through the ages, by overindulging in her
glorious
moment of gloating. She didn't dodge in time when Pik harnessed
the
considerable momentum of his fall to roll and lunge, entrapping
her
ankle and hauling her own feet out from under her in an instant.

Her hand shot out to break her fall and snatch a free weight as a
weapon, but only succeeded in the former enterprise before he'd
half-straddled her hips, pinning her hands to the mat by the
wrists.
She hooked one foot around his unbalanced left leg and kicked
viciously, effectively dislodging him and initiating a wild
scramble
for position, limbs thrashing and tangling, lips curled into
bestial snarls.
Gradually, a prone version of the same stalemate from the bar
emerged,
aggressive faces separated by a slender inch or two.

They both looked deeply into one another's eyes.

Their sudden kiss seemed almost fiercer than the fighting, an
intimate
combat shifting seamlessly into perverse foreplay. It was
emblematic,
really, the way their lips and tongues became embattled as their
bodies
and their minds, warm flesh spiced with the threat of teeth --
sharpness
at the heart of any softness. A tank top and two pairs of shorts
flew far
and wide as if propelled by the raw centrifugal forces generated
by their
grappling. Vaughn's nails raked down Pik's broad back in bloody
trails,
her own back arching as the heat of his mouth suckled the salt
from her
breasts with cruel intensity. Kissing his way up to her
collarbone, large
palm cupping her flushed cheek, he slid his thumb between her
parted
lips in an erotic foreshadowing of their imminent intimacies.
Eyes
darkened with a domineering satisfaction, he watched her writhe
beneath
his touch. Now, Vaughn, I took you for a screamer, he
whispered,
easing his way between her taut thighs, seductive grin framed by
the
disconcerting, deep-set dimples of a sociopathic Romeo. Don't
disappoint me. His sensual hand slid down to clasp her hip,
guiding
her to meet his penetration with a silent shudder. Acutely honed
perceptions tracked the slightest sensations flickering across
her
fine-boned features much as he would stalk the progress of his
prey.
Moan for me. You know you want to, he taunted. The
louder the better.

Her eyes flew open wider than her splayed thighs, and far less
receptive.
What? You cocky -- Without warning, her long, limber
legs wrapped
tight around his waist, inner muscles squeezing in mysterious
ways which
hastily replaced his air of cool superiority with one much less
commanding,
his eyes practically crossing from the force of the exquisite
pleasure.
I think I can handle you, Pik. Question is, are you man
enough to handle me?
You'll be the one who screams for mercy long before I'm through
with you.

If their liaison had been scored with a soundtrack, some X-rated
variation of
the opening riff of Dueling Banjos -- probably
retitled Dueling Smirks --
would have echoed forth its first tentative notes. Is that
a challenge? he
inquired, thoroughly bemused.

You bet that cute ass it is, she retorted, swatting
it for emphasis.
Let's see how well you rise to it.

And so the competition began.

Far more appropriate to call it a competition, than an act of
passion.
After all, passion, in terms of either anger or
desire, denotes a certain
loss of control, a physical immersion in an unrestrained emotion.
Not so with the professional detachment of mercenary sex.
It hastily degenerated into little more than an eerily silent
wrestling
match, as each grappled with cunning determination to achieve the
dominant position, to attack a different sort of physical
weakness in
the enemy. The unspoken rules were clear: the first to submit to
the
other, to openly surrender to pleasure in word or deed, would be
the loser.

Though Vaughn was both experienced and determined, Pik's size and
strength gave him an undeniable advantage. He quickly emerged on
top,
and increased the depth and tempo of his relentless thrusts
accordingly,
sliding his hand between her thighs to further stimulate her
sensitive
depths with predatory precision. Score one point for Pik; nowhere
for
her to go but up to meet him, and she clearly loved it hard and
fast,
however much she tried to hide it behind an impassive scowl. In a
stroke of luck, he'd stumbled on her erotic Achilles heel. Half-rising
on one elbow, he bared his teeth into the intrepid grin of a
mountaineer
who spies the peaks of Everest within a moment's climb. Only the
peaks of her breasts, of course, but still . . . eyeing those
peaks
appraisingly, he raised his exploring hand from between her legs
to
rub the pad of his thumb over their erect curves, to see if the
friction
of that gesture would press her sexual buttons as well.

Big mistake. It turned him into an unbalanced, easy target once
again.
She unclenched her legs from around his waist and, in an eye-watering
exhibition of Flying Wallenda-esque acrobatic flexibility, she
hooked
him underneath the arms enough to flip him over like an omlette,
leaving
her seated triumphantly astride. Not giving him a second to
recover, she
worked that voodoo magic once again, muscles clenching his
arousal in
a dazzling assortment of complex, elaborate, and quite possibly
illegal
gestures. As she leaned over to lap and nip at his own nipples
with
tongue and teeth, raking her nails down his forearms, he bit back
a
groan just in time. Score one large point for Vaughn. Hell, she'd
nearly
*won.* Still, judging by the subtle spasms of her thighs, she was
on the
edge herself, her stoic silence notwithstanding . . . .

Grasping her forearms, he forced her back beneath him, holding
firm
this time. Pressing his lips to hers, invading her mouth, he
timed the
thrusts of hips and tongue in perfect sync, not allowing her a
chance
to move -- even to breathe -- without increasing the level of his
overwhelming penetration. He'd smother her resistance with the
feel of
him, the smell of him, the heated flesh of him. Score game point
for Pik.

Still she struggled, holding out against the inevitable, nails
digging into his
sturdy shoulders in a fruitless attempt to resist the telltale
tightening of
nerves screaming bloody murder for release. Her hands clutched
upwards, pressing against the nape of his neck, fingertips
caressed by
the crisp velvet texture of his hair. She knew it was all over.
She knew
she was going to lose. And the worst of it -- the absolute worst
of it --
was the guilty thrill of pure adrenaline now coursing through her
bloodstream. Losing to him turned her on even more . . . .

Ah . . . Ah . . . Ah . . . Oh God -- Yes . . . Ahhhnggh --
YESSSS!

She came, she screamed, he conquered.

*Thank God,* he echoed silently. He'd been on the verge himself.
With effort, he shuddered to an unsteady halt in mid-thrust.
I win.
His usually cultured voice was rough, ragged with unfulfilled
arousal.

Vaughn glared up at him, her eyes sparking with indignant rage,
but
not because of wounded pride. Shut up and *keep going*!
she
snarled, the phrase emerging more as an outright order than a
polite
request. Locking her arms and legs around Pik once more, she
astonished the hell out of him by thrusting her tongue into his
mouth. Within seconds, his throaty grunts mingled with her second
set of screams.

*************

It was a fluke, you know.

Pik gazed down at the slender blonde sprawled across his chest,
fingers idly toying with the tufts of black hair. Both of them
were
damp and boneless as a dishrag. Ha. A very weak excuse.

Egomaniac. You were just lucky. Seized with a sudden
inspiration,
Vaughn smiled slyly. You'd never be able to get to me like
that again.
Guaranteed.

Is that a challenge? Pik inquired archly, an evil
grin forming on his
own face as he caught sight of the unmistakably come-hither
expression
in Vaughn's eyes: unsated, unadulterated lust, pure and primal.

Best 2 out of 3, she replied, straddling him atop the
exercise mat.

*Maybe 3 out of 5?* Pik mused, then lost himself within the magic
of
her muscles and her mouth . . . .

Eventually, they decided to call it a draw rather than go for 7
out of 12.
After all, even the most physically fit need to sleep sometime.
And they
needed to be at their best tomorrow, of all days.